Millennial Musings

There is a homesickness for my childhood, but whenever I revisit my family home, I understand why I left. The presence of a suffocation that stifles my words and makes me a mute. I count down the minutes till I can leave and breathe again. The drive back usually consisting of loud singing as I find my voice again. And then the sadness will seep in, as I grieve my parents who are still alive, but were never really there.

I believed my childhood was typically normal and unremarkable. It took a decade of leaving the family home and 4 years of private therapy to appreciate how abnormal it was. A fact I frequently forget between visits. Hopeful as ever, every few months I pack a bag and look forward to creating the happy memories with my parents which are lacking thus far. I usually arrive full of energy. By the time I leave I am depleted and nursing a migraine.

My parents are not bad people. Far from it. They are just from a completely different world to the one I live in. I can appreciate the struggles they have been through in life and the hard work they have done to make a life for themselves. I appreciate the graft they put in to get me the best education which meant I could pursue a career I am passionate about. I appreciate the sacrifices they made in order to give us the best they could. But I can’t help the feeling of resentment. And then the guilt, that maybe I’m just a shitty daughter for feeling anger towards them.

Research has shown time and time again that children value emotional connections with their caregivers more than material things. I can vouch for that. I am a case example. My parents always ensured we never lacked materially. For that I am thankful. Emotionally, however, I see how troubled each prodigy of theirs is. I’m so thankful that subconsciously I knew I had to get away to heal that emotional chasm. Had I stayed nearby, things would not have turned out so well for me. When we get together for family meals, I can’t help analysing how each of my siblings turned out emotionally. And I count my lucky stars that fate had me take a different path in life.

As a child I suffered extreme social anxiety. This continued as a teenager and along with it came an eating disorder. I started acting out in reckless ways, making sure I was discreet enough to never get caught, but careless enough to put myself in real danger sometimes. I thought I was a stereotypical teenager acting out, but I see now with hindsight, I was a troubled, lonely, young woman seeking control and love.

Having just gone through a pretty horrific medical issue and a long infertility journey, I crave a mother’s hug to console me. I crave a father telling me I’m still complete and he’s there with me through it all. I want them to ask me about my recent health issues, my infertility woes and new job which I am so proud of and worked so hard to get to, but instead I have to listen to phone calls they make to distant relatives boasting about how their daughter is a consultant. It seems like it was all for show. They don’t even know what hospital, what kind of service or what I do day to day. But as long as our second cousins’ aunty’s son knows I am now a consultant, they are satisfied in their knowledge that someone’s burning with jealousy about how accomplished their kids are. Accomplished but emotionally void. Cheers to that.

I’ll sit through dinners and teas listening to how unhappy they are with their lot in life. I know the feeling. As someone who thought she would be a mother by now, I get the disappointment when your life trajectory goes off path. But I will never be unhappy with my life. I feel so blessed that I have been dealt the cards I have. It can always be so much worse. And listening to them in their huge, gorgeous, Victorian home with enough food on the table to feed a third world country, the resentment continues to grumble along inside me. So I’ll take a break in the toilet for an hour, taking solace in the fact that at least they imparted some wisdom during the visit. The wisdom of knowing I never want to end up like them.

The drive back is a 3 hour catharsis of singing loudly, drinking my service stop lattes and sometimes shedding a tear. Because I’m grieving my parents who are still alive, but for whom I stopped living a long time ago.